FROM THE AUTHOR ΤΟ Α CELEBRATED METHODIST PREACHER. HYPOCRISY's Son! No more of your fun; A truce with fanatical raving: Why censure the stage? "Tis known to the age That both of us thrive by-deceiving. 'Tis frequently said That two of a trade Will boldy each other bespatter: But trust me, they're fools Who play with edged tools; So let's have no more of the matter. FROM A TRUANT TO HIS FRIENDS. 'Tis not in cells, or a sequester'd cot, In your affections (let resentment fly!) Restore me to my long-accustom'd place; Receive me with a kind forgiving eye, And press me in the parent's fond embrace. G VERSES WRITTEN ABOUT THREE WEEKS BEFORE HIS DEATH. DEAR lad, as you run o'er my rhyme, As Damons their Chloes receive, They're all a poor friend has to give. The Drama and I have shook hands, We've parted, no more to engage; Submissive I met her commands For nothing can cure me of age. A pension supplies me with bread! His bounty proceeds from his heart; But like the old horse in the song, I'm turn'd on the common to grazeTo Fortune these changes belong, And contented I yield to her ways! She ne'er was my friend; through the day When Time shall the summons proclaim. I've nothing to weep for behind! To part with my friends is the worst! Their numbers, I grant, are confined, But you are still one of the first, IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock!) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nursed by night, retire : And the peeping sunbeam now Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night; And the lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof'd cottage ridge, See the chattering swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale; Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies in the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd Trickling through the creviced rock, Colin, for the promised corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious, hears the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drown his pipe. Sweet, O sweet the warbling throng, Echoes to the rising day. NOON. FERVID on the glittering flood, Not a dewdrop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines; Now the flock forsakes the glade, By the ivy'd abbey wall. |